


silk

by ayuminb



Series: Jonsa Smut Week [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (because he took Sansa's name yas), (he's also a horny bastard), (i feel like i should say - Sansa marries Jon at age 16), (their ages are somewhere between book and show jsyk), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cousin Incest, F/M, Jon Snow is a Stark, Jon is Jon, Jonsa Smut Week, Light Bondage, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-05 21:21:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12802629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuminb/pseuds/ayuminb
Summary: In which Sansa is curious and Jon is all too happy to oblige.[written for theJonsa Smut Week, day one - trying something new]





	silk

Sansa is only ever this shy when it relates to their marriage bed _(or their marriage in general, new as it is)_.

 

Jon—his blood hums in sudden anticipation—shifts on his seat, restless, hands itching to touch her, but his lady wife. He can’t simply rush with her. Oh, but the way he craves her shames him, at times, the intensity of his feelings for the girl who once bore the label of sister. _Only the label_ , Jon reminds himself. Once, he’d fought tooth and nail over the knowledge that he might see her as something else—something more—but that time has long passed.

 

Now there’s only _this_ ; only them.

 

She picks at her food, gaze lowered and cheeks aflame; Jon swallows a mouthful of ale and tries to calm his ever-growing nerves. _She’s my lady wife_ , he thinks, _if I can’t relax around her then…_

 

“M'lady,” and that – that is the wrong thing to say, so he corrects, grabbing her hand to keep her still, “ _Sansa_.”

 

She takes a deep breath, squeezes his hand, and pins resolute eyes on him. “I just thought… there might be something we could try—”

 

In the bedchamber.

 

“—something new.”

 

His breath hitches; Jon blinks slowly, clenches his jaw shut and his free hand into a fist. Tries to remain unmoving lest he startles her – lest he frightens her with his reactions. _Overwhelming_. Sansa had come a maid into their marriage bed, but only because she’d _fought_ for it. She’d fought to protect her maidenhead as fiercely as she’d wanted to fight to get back their home.

 

He knows; had Lady Brienne and Jaime Lannister not come to her when they did…

 

“What… what’s this new thing?”

 

Her gaze falls again, and this time she cannot muster the courage to speak of it again. And then they finish breaking their fast; and then they get ready to begin their day. But before they part, Sansa stops him by placing her hand briefly over his arm:

 

“Will you be joining me for supper tonight, my lord?”

 

Perhaps he is too eager in his haste to agree, but he can be forgiven—blood humming and pulse racing–because Sansa smiles at him in such a way that tells him all he needs to know about this encounter.

 

The soft tilt of her mouth, the glint in her eyes – _teasing, she’s teasing me_.

 

*****

 

It’s not like he thinks Sansa’s grown bored in the bedchamber – it’s only that she’s _ever_ curious.

 

That’d been a shock. Jon had half expected her to endure his presence in her bed for the sake of producing an heir—and he’d given her the choice to wait for that. They’re still young; there’s time for it now, they can _wait_. He’d not wanted to be another man who would force his attentions on her – Jaime Lannister had been most glad to warn him off, providing a brief but enlightening account of Sansa’s life previous to their reunion.

 

“Do you find me unattractive, Jon? Or… is it because we thought each other to be brother and sister, that you find this repulsive?”

 

But Sansa had taken his offer the wrong way – and, _alright_ , he’d not been very eloquent in his explanation. So, among his stumbling apology and his clumsy words of comfort— _it’s quite the opposite, my lady, I find you too_ —he’d managed to dissuade her of such notions.

 

_(And then, she’d shyly led him to her bedchambers and Jon had very nearly combusted at the thought – of Sansa and her shy kisses and soon-to-be exposed skin, softest thing he’s ever touched, his mind whispers. He sure apologized for the state of her shift, after they’d laid entangled under the furs, and her smallclothes, as he ripped those in his haste; but he did not apologize for loving her so thoroughly.)_

 

So, _Sansa_ – her curiosity in what can and cannot be _done_ in the marriage bed, it’s limitless. And— _you’re a shameless, lustful bastard, Snow_ —Jon is all too happy to indulge her.

 

So _goddamned_ happy.

 

The feather-light touch to his face brings him out of his reminiscence. Jon blinks, bringing into focus the lovely image of Sansa standing before him in only her shift—the cotton being rendered near useless in the firelight, scarcely _concealing_ —his hands itch to reach out and touch her, grab the last piece of clothing standing in his way and tear it off. _Gently_ , this time, he’ll unwrap her like a gift.

 

_“I thought… I’d been told there was no need to remove my shift for the bedding…?”_

 

_“You wish to… keep it on?”_

 

_“Should I not…?”_

 

A tug on his beard startles him, and he ends up giving her a sheepish smile. A smile she returns as her fingers dance their way down his neck and to his chest.

 

“Am I boring you, Jon?”

 

Her voice is soft and low and so very tempting; the way her fingers map the lines of his chest, hills and valleys and the soft tissue of each scar, going as far down his abdomen as she can reach without having to bend down – it nearly drives him mad. Had she not asked him to keep his breeches on, he’d be rid of them already. Rid of them and begging her to lie back so he may show her—over and over how very pleasant it can always be for her.

 

His cock twitches when her gaze drops to his lap, pupils blown wide; he groans. “How—” takes a deep breath, counts to ten; he can’t lose control now, this is her night to lead “—how shall we proceed, my lady?”

 

Color inches up her exposed chest, up, up, _up_ her neck and to her lovely face; whatever it is she wants to try, Sansa must be pretty certain it will be either very pleasant – she juts her chin out, her courage gathered. “Would you lie back, please?”

 

Much too happy to indulge her.

 

While he does as he’s told, Sansa goes to retrieve something from one of her chests—laces, silk laces. Jon looks at the fabric as she twists it in her hands, then up at her; his blood thrums. Then she climbs atop the bed, decisive, emboldened; she sits astride his hips—he _whimpers_.

 

 _I feel like a green boy_ , he thinks, hands grabbing her hips to bring her closer to his aching cock, and sits up to place his lips upon her neck, struggling for control, _Gods but she’ll unman me_.

 

“Jon,” his name is a sigh, one that he swallows all too eagerly and thinks for a moment he might be just a tad too much right now.

 

But Sansa—moaning and trembling and grabbing at his hair—she answers in kind. The first kiss of the evening and one that feels like an eternity apart from the last. Then it’s _over_ , he groan piteously, and she pushes onto his back; panting and looking gloriously disheveled.

 

“I’d like to tie you up now, my lord…”

 

He’s pretty sure he imagines her words.

 

*****

 

There’s a pattern to her actions.

 

That’s all his pleasure-addled mind can muster thinking before drowning under the overwhelming sensations. The touch of her fingers – how it goes from feather-light to rough as she allows herself to explore his body. Her lips—

 

 _“I’d like to please you, Jon,”_ she’d said, placing a chaste kiss to his lips before moving to tie his wrists to the bedframe. _“Like you please me.”_

 

—her lips and their slow descent through his body, it is the _sweetest_ torture. Jon, he’s not vocal about _his_ pleasure; oh, he’ll whisper endlessly in Sansa’s ear, all manner of filthy thoughts in the height of their passion, but a soft moan is as far as he’d go to vocalize his own release.

 

When the laces on his breeches loosen, he’s enough presence of mind to realize – oh, but she’s following his steps. Her pattern is his pattern and—and, and, _and_.

 

“Sansa…”

 

His cock springs free of its restrains, but not his wrists and Jon feels the silk dig into his skin as he tries to reach for her; their eyes lock, there’s a beat, then slowly—she _smiles_.

 

 _Slowly_ , her delicate hand strokes his throbbing cock; she leans up to kiss his lips.

 

“I want to make you feel good, Jon…”

 

Slowly, she kisses her way back down—slowly, so goddamned slowly—he groans and moans and whimpers and then; eyes open wide, her soft pink lips wrap around the head. He feels her tongue flick over the tip—a shock of unbridled pleasure shoots up his spine and his hips jerk up. _More_ , but he won’t ask – _cannot_. It is enough that she would even _want_ to—Sansa takes more of him in, wraps her hands over what won’t fit into her mouth and then.

 

“Fuck…!”

 

She sucks – moves up, swirling her tongue as she goes and sucks again. His hips buck up, once more— _Gods_ —feels the muscles of his arms strain, his wrists will be sore and red come morning, but Jon needs, needs, _needs_ to touch her now. He tries to keep still, pulls at one of the knots; he only needs one hand, just one, to thread his fingers through her hair, push it back from her face just. One. He pulls at his restrains again; his hips buck as she keeps a steady rhythm, a steady pattern—a long lick, a flick of a tongue, rubbing and circling, and her head keeps going down, down, _down_.

 

“Sansa, fuck, Sansa…”

 

Head thrown back and there’s a popping sound and, vaguely, he recognizes most of her actions as one of his own, when the roles are reversed; Jon is _undone_.

 

And then:

 

“Was that good?”

 

There’s a tug at his wrist, another, and the silk loosens. The ties unwind and his arms fall atop the pillows, aching, muscle pulsing; the sudden relief startles him, he’d not noticed her crawling up his body. It takes him all of a second to focus his gaze on her—flushed cheeks, but an curious and adorably open expression—Sansa waits for her answer.

 

Would it be too much, if he were to confess now that he would bed her every single night if she would just let him? That he doesn’t ask because he fears she’ll agree out of duty and not any real desire for him? Would it? Oh, but _this_ , what she’s done now—Jon hopes this means she _does_ desire him, that she craves him as much as he does her.

 

“Good,” a whisper—fevered and pained. “It was too goddamned good.”

 

And then—she _smirks_.


End file.
